Chapter 2
Alone, again
It was getting dark now and Harry was still sitting in the rather uncomfortable armchair where he had sat ever since Dumbledore had left three hours ago, ambling down the street looking for all the world like an old Muggle out for an evening constitutional.
The list of instructions had been fairly long and Harry hoped that he had absorbed enough into his already over-saturated brain that he would not overlook some vital key and wind up ruining the entire plan.
"No magic." That had been repeated often enough that Harry had finally said, "I know, Professor. No magic. At all. Period. End of sentence. No magic." Harry was very surprised, then, when Dumbledore had pulled his old trusty Phoenix-feather core wand out of his inner pocket. "Just in case," Dumbledore had said. "If your life is in eminent danger and only if it is. After all, there is no point in worrying about you being found if the alternative is that you are dead. Keep your wand with you at all times, Harry. You could have trouble anytime you are out of this house. If you were to run into a wizard who recognized you . . . Well, it wouldn't take long to bring the enemy down on you." Dumbledore went on to explain that he had told Ron and Hermione that the wand had been destroyed in the same battle where Harry had "died" and that they seemed to accept that, even though they were very upset about not having even that small memento of their best friend.
That comment had probably caused Harry the most distress of the entire conversation. He had, up to that point, assumed that Ron and Hermione at least would know that he really was not dead. But Dumbledore had told him that it was necessary that everyone, absolutely everyone, except for he himself, think that Harry was dead. "Let's face facts, Harry. When two people know something, it is no longer a secret. There is just too much risk that something, anything, could give away the game. The survival of the entire wizarding world could depend on this secret, Harry. They have to think you are gone, just like everyone else." Harry had a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach, imagining himself thinking that Ron was dead, or Hermione. He knew how bad they would feel and yet he couldn't do anything to make it better right now. He hoped, that somehow, when the whole plot was revealed, they would be able to forgive him.
He reached over to a nearby lamp and turned the knob, lighting the corner where he sat with a dim yellow glow. He had to pull himself together. He was a 16-year-old boy and he needed to take care of some basic realities. First of all, he had no food in the house, no clothes except for what he had on, and absolutely no clue what he was going to do next.